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not take a third man? He said, "You see that they are new chums, and instead of being of any service, would give us a great deal of trouble; it is therefore better that we should go alone. It cannot be much more than fifty miles to the coast, and the road must be very rough indeed if we cannot make five or six miles a day. This would take, therefore, ten days at the outside, from there to the Teramakau; it will take at most two days more, and then one day to the Grey; or we can get a canoe from Captain Dixon with provisions, ascend the Teramakau as far as possible, and from thence across the saddle easily in four or five days. If Captain Dixon should have left that part, we can find out the Brothers Sherrin, who will supply us with sufficient provisions to take us back; or we may find out the diggers that Captain Dixon had brought there. Should all those fail, we will proceed to the Grey, and there get sufficient from the Maoris to take us on to Howitt’s, at Lake Brunner, well knowing that he, being a particular friend, will supply us with all things necessary. It is only necessary to take sufficient to bring us to the coast; the rest must provide for itself."

It was then arranged what else we would take with us, viz., a hatchet, a billy for tea, no tent (as it was too heavy), a long thin rope, panikins, and some tea; he would not take any sugar, that also was too heavy. When I represented that a small quantity of sugar was very desirable, he said I might do as I liked about it; that I might take as much as I chose to carry; I therefore took about 8 lbs. with me, besides the rat-traps, tobacco, matches, salt, his instrument, and a quarter of cooked mutton, which we had brought with us; and the principal thing, the biscuits, we counted out four a day for fourteen days. The two others had now returned; he told them his intentions, that we two would go on, while they were to return the following day to Christchurch, get the horses shod, and then proceed to the foot of the Teramakau saddle, to a hut, which I told them where to find, with the horses and provisions, and there to wait for us. We chatted a long time that evening, the weather being beautiful, speaking of our intended journey. He again said he did not think it would take us more than fourteen days to reach the Teramakau saddle, and he expressed a hope that the weather would remain fine; but that if it broke, we had no alternative but to keep on, rain or no rain, since the provisions were limited for a certain number of days. I drew his attention to the valley at the west side of the mountain range, and asked if that was perhaps the Pass he expected to find. He said he did not know; that he had already observed this valley, and that it seemed easy to cross; but the next day he would follow to the very head of the river, as another side valley could be seen leading in the same direction, but being about three miles distant, we could not see whether it was crossable or not. On the following morning, the 22nd, we prepared for our journey. Mr. Whitcombe counted out the biscuits for fourteen days, putting

twelve in his own swag; I took the remainder with all the rest of the things. We had killed the evening previous three birds like thrushes, which, being very good eating, we took with us; we also caught a wood-hen. It was determined to take one man with us for a few miles, to help to carry the things, the other to remain with the horses. After walking about three miles, we reached the foot of the glacier from which the Rakaia takes its source; the blue water rushes out with violence from a vaulted cave under the ice. We saw at once that we had come up too far, as this side valley ended near at hand in an abrupt wall of ice. We laid down our packs, and, the day being fine, ascended the first low glacier that blocked up the valley; it was about 400 or 500 feet high, nearly level, so we could easily climb to the top. From here we had a magnificent prospect of other glaciers, rising on all sides to a great height. After we had satisfied our curiosity, we descended, took up our packs, and went back the way we had come. We intended now to try the Pass in the valley, which I had observed the evening of our arrival. Mr. Whitcombe thought that this this might possibly be the spot he was to examine whether it were possible to make a track across. We walked very fast, as we had already lost a part of the day, and we had hopes of crossing the saddle this fine day. A large rapid stream runs down the narrow valley; no scrub is to be seen, nor any more glaciers. The mountains rise to a great height on both sides, with snow-covered summits, but without any ice. About eleven a.m., before we had time to think about it, heavy clouds came up along the sides of the mountains, and almost at the same instant it began to rain hard. We thought it was only a passing storm, but it kept on increasing; presently large flakes of snow began to fall, and in a short time everything was covered. We reached the highest point of the saddle; it consists of disjointed blocks of rock, and for a few hundred yards is nearly level. We sat down to rest. Mr. Whitcombe took an observation with his instrument, and told me we were about 4000 feet above the level of the sea. It was about one p.m.; the snow continued to fall very fast, and made it very cold. Mr. Whitcombe said to me it was better to send the other man back now, otherwise the snow would be too deep for him to return. I therefore took the whole load, and eight biscuits more. We then separated—Mr. Whitcombe and I going to the west; the other man returning to the camp we had left in the morning, which he could still reach before nightfall. To this point, though at a great expense, a track might be cut; at least, it is not impossible to do so, but now begins a descent, not steep, but very much broken everywhere. The valley gets narrower and narrower; water rushes forth from under all the rocks, and in a short time a large stream is formed, running in a north-west direction. From both sides of the valley small streams fall down nearly perpendicular; the brook soon becomes a river; and the same evening we